Extraction
by cathrl
Summary: Once upon a time, I fired up a random plot generator, and it suggested a story about an impassioned textile engineer expert.
1. Extraction

This was supposed to be a Goat's Tale fic (which is a term my fandom's forum uses for complete stories of under 1000 words), but chapter 1 came in at 1400  
words and it's just so silly that I couldn't face doing any serious editing.

The plot is courtesy of the gatchfanfic random ideas generator and is officially Not My Fault.

Many thanks to my daughter for proofreading ("Mum? YOU wrote this?"). The only warnings are for complete and utter idiocy.

The plot generator suggested:

Part of the story is set on another planet  
It starts with a safe  
It involves tea  
Someone uses a tool  
And it may involve an impassioned textile engineer expert.

* * *

 **Extraction**

"This is the stupidest mission ever," Jason muttered as he fitted the drill attachment to his cablegun. "He's having a laugh. I don't believe he's lost the keys. I don't even believe there's anything important in here."

"Just drill the darn safe, G-2." Mark agreed with everything his second had said, but he had his orders. Very explicit orders. Someone extremely close to Zoltar wanted to defect, and he was to be humoured in every detail.

Mark was starting to wonder whether Anderson knew something he wasn't telling. And Cronus. This planet was far closer to Riga than to Earth. He'd thought it slightly odd at the time that G-Force had been given this mission, not the Red Rangers. Within three minutes of meeting the man they were here to extract, he'd needed every ounce of his self-control not to ignore his orders, sling the annoying little man over his shoulder, and just leave.

Danquana was a sufficiently famous style guru that even Mark had vaguely heard of him. Princess had gasped and held her hands to her face on learning who they were to rescue, apparently unable to decide whether to be overawed at meeting him or horrified that he'd been working for Spectra. She was with him now, helping him to pack up 'crucial' designs and 'priceless' prototype costumes to be worn by Zoltar and his mecha captains. Mark was only still here at all because, given that the captains generally wore something associated with the mecha design they flew, it might conceivably give them some insight into the type of craft they'd be facing in the future.

Still, he'd expected the man to do his packing _before_ they had arrived. His opinion of fashion designers had never been high, and this little twerp wasn't improving it. 'Textile engineer' indeed. Keyop, who took his position as the team's engineer extremely seriously, had been sufficiently apoplectic at hearing that one that Mark had sent him back to the Phoenix before Danquana decided working for Zoltar wasn't so bad after all.

Jason's drill whined as it cut into the hardened steel. The safe might be painted baby pink, but it appeared to be just as secure as a standard grey one. Mark had always hated the sound, and was concentrating so hard on ignoring it he almost missed the bleeping of his bracelet.

It was Tiny. "Is there a problem? You've been ages!"

"Patience, G-5," Mark snapped, and promptly felt guilty. It wasn't Tiny he wanted to yell at. "Small delay. Nothing to worry about."

He sighed to himself, willing the drill to hurry. Intelligence were sure there was nobody else here, wouldn't be for hours yet, but even so he'd be happier when they were back on the Phoenix.

Finally the grating whine of the drill stopped, leaving Mark with the urge to scrub his teeth. Jason holstered his gun and pulled the door open. "I don't believe it!"

It was, indeed, empty.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," the most annoying voice in the world said from the bedroom doorway. "I guess I did put my papers somewhere else after all. Yes, I had them _after_ I lost the keys. I remember. Now let me think -"

Mark shut his eyes and counted to five, reminding himself how much paperwork there would be if he throttled the man. He sincerely hoped Jason was doing the same.

"Oh," Jason said blandly. "That's unfortunate. I set the timed charges to go off in ten minutes. I'm sorry, it looks like we'll have to leave without -"

"I've just remembered I put them under the mattress." Danquana didn't sound at all perturbed, but he did scurry away in some haste back into the bedroom, trailing an assortment of pastel multicoloured scarves from his left arm. The right one was bare except for an assortment of glittery jewelry. The visual effect was quite astonishing.

Princess emerged from the bedroom with two of the largest suitcases Mark had ever seen, and actually rolled her eyes. So it wasn't just his prejudices, he noted. Princess _liked_ fashion design. Princess had volunteered to look after Danquana during the rescue mission. Princess was, he suspected, regretting it.

 _Thank you_ , he signed to his second. _Timed charges_?

Jason grinned and shrugged. As Mark had thought. They'd blow this place up with a single missile once they were away. No need to leave signs that they'd actually gone in and extracted anyone.

"Are we ready to go?" he asked out loud. "Mr Danquana, it's unsafe for us to stay any longer."

There was no reply, but a figure emerged from the bedroom clutching a sheaf of papers, and Mark had to call on all his self-control not to laugh. Danquana's coat was purple and iridescent, with random slits through which a furry orange fabric peeped. Not only that, but it had clearly been intended for a much taller man. The sleeves almost completely covered his hands, and the back of the coat trailed on the floor.

 _Remember, he may have important information_. Mark steeled himself and called upon years of training to keep his voice steady. "Let's go." He headed for the door, relieving Princess of one of the suitcases on the way.

"Must we really leave already? I haven't said goodbye, and it's almost time for tea -"

"You heard the Condor. The charges blow in a few minutes. We need to be well clear before that happens. It's for your own safety."

Danquana hesitated, looked round, found Jason directly behind him and advancing, and started walking.

.

"Thank heavens for fiery Phoenix," Jason sighed as they waited on the flight deck for Princess to get back from making their guest comfortable in the shielded safety of sickbay. "It's been a long time since I've been that tempted to hit someone and not done it. I was afraid you were going to tell him he could come in here until we went to jump."

"Not likely," Mark said. His jaw hurt from trying not to laugh - and besides, he didn't want anyone who had ever worked for Spectra in here, even if he was unlikely to know the difference between a radar screen and a fuel gauge. "Princess! How's our friend?"

"Talkative," she said shortly, heading to her seat. "Can you believe, he asked me if we had tea? On here? He was quite put out when I told him no. What does he think this is, a pleasure cruise? I came this close to hitting him."

"See, it's not just me," Jason said.

"He likes birdstyle, though," she continued, a glint of humour in her eye. "But not our colour schemes. White is too stark for you, apparently, Commander. He thinks you should have a touch of pink. Or was it orange? And a touch more, what did he say, flippancy to the wings. To add character."

Jason spluttered helplessly. Tiny appeared to be beyond even that, waving his arms and completely failing to make any coherent sound.

"But he thinks Jason has a better body shape. If you ever want to be a male model, you should give him a call. I have the details for you right here." She displayed a card to the near-hysterical team. Pink and orange featured predominantly.

"And then -"

"Please can we just go home?" Jason begged. "I want to forget today ever happened as soon as possible."

"Next male supermodel!" Keyop choked between sobs of laughter. Jason just dropped his head into his hands.

"Home," Mark said. "Is he secure?" He didn't trust his voice for more than that.

Princess nodded.

"Then sound off." He considered his self-control, and decided it was good enough. "The fate of the galaxy may depend on knowing what Zoltar's favourite fabric is, you know."

Tiny groaned, holding his ribs. "I have this image -"

The rest of the team howled in protest, and it was a good ten minutes before the Phoenix lifted off and headed for orbit.


	2. Extraction II

The first chapter was going to be it, but there was a discussion on the fandom forum and the plot elephant sat on my head. Over at gatchfanfic, what's chapters here were posted as three separate stories over a period of several months.

With thanks to Sandy, who made the comment about picking three colours and an animal.

Set the day after Extraction I.

* * *

 **Extraction II**

"I can't believe he's making us do a debrief on this!" Jason was blatantly over-acting as he leant dramatically on the ready room table, glancing around to check he had everyone's full attention.

"We debrief everything," Princess said. "Even false alarms."

"But a cab ride for a twit of a fashion designer?" Every line of his body held disdain.

"Textile engineer," Tiny said, with one eye on Keyop.

Their youngest team member snorted and rolled his eyes in what was becoming a more accurate imitation of Jason by the day. He'd made it perfectly clear what he thought of the title of 'engineer' being used by someone whose idea of complex mechanics was a sewing machine.

"Textile...twerp." Unfortunately the casual pose, complete with crossed ankles as he leant against the wall, was ruined as he lost his balance and wobbled wildly.

Princess shot a despairing glance at Mark, who had deliberately stayed over in the kitchen area when he realised half his team was working up to a good whinge just in time for their debriefing. He knew exactly what she meant. Debrief would take twice as long if they went into it in an antagonistic mood. Even if Mark did feel exactly the same way that the rest of his team sounded. It had been a complete waste of everyone's time. He'd also been taken somewhat aback by the debrief on today's schedule - and more than a little worried. He hadn't exactly taken his mission report seriously, and had been feeling guilty about it ever since he'd seen the timetable for this morning.

"Arrogant little -"

"Okay, that's enough. Let's jump through the hoops for now." Mark fixed his stare firmly on Jason, knowing that Keyop would follow the other's lead. "Keep Anderson happy and we'll be out of there inside ten minutes. I'd rather not spend the whole morning discussing protocol."

He headed out of the ready room, and Jason followed with an audible, over-dramatic sigh.

In the briefing room was not only Anderson, but also a middle-aged man in a grey suit sitting alongside him at the head of the table. At that point Mark knew full well why they'd been called to a debrief, though he was a little surprised they'd not been told to show up in birdstyle. Not just a paper-pusher, not just a high-ranking one, but one who was trusted enough to see G-Force in civilian mode. One who made decisions that mattered. Such people occasionally got invited to G-Force meetings - Mark presumed it was Anderson's way of making them feel important. Never significant meetings, but he was pretty sure the people involved didn't know that.

In any case, no matter how trusted this man was, no names would be used in front of him.

"Team, this is Colonel James," Anderson said before any questions could be asked. "He's with Intelligence."

"Colonel," Mark said politely, taking his seat on the right-hand side of the long table, opposite the stranger. He just hoped Jason kept his mouth shut. He'd heard his second's opinions on Intelligence - mostly their lack of it - on more than one occasion before.

Nobody else spoke until they'd all taken their places - Jason next to him, Keyop next along, and Princess and Tiny on the other side of the table. At that point, Anderson stood up and slowly scanned round the table. Mark's heart sank. He knew this body language far too well. This wasn't a formality; a meeting set up purely so some Intelligence officer could see them have one. This was Anderson not happy at all - and Mark found himself wondering which of the two senior officers here had even called the meeting.

Anderson's gaze fell on Keyop, whose face fell instantly. Tiny, faintly bemused. Princess, who flushed desperately - Anderson generally reserved his slow stare for people with whom he was specifically annoyed. Jason, whose expression never wavered. And, inevitably last, on him.

"Commander, do you really consider this an adequate report?" Mark's single sheet of paper was laid on the table with disdainful care. "Slapdash and casual. This won't do at all."

Mark felt himself blush. "No, Chief. I'm sorry, sir. I let playing taxi get to me. But even if there was nothing to report, I should have been more professional in my comments."

"You were the first people since Zoltar to speak face-to-face with Danquana! Nothing to report?"

Mark could feel his temper rising, even if he had told Jason to jump through the hoops and keep this short. There were limits. He'd apologised...and Anderson was still going to dress him down in from of some colourless Intelligence lackey?

"Permission to speak freely, Chief?"

"I expect you to be candid at all times during a debriefing."

 _Fine. You asked for it_. "Chief, the man was an annoying twerp. We humoured him, we played nice, we didn't get his back up. But you can't expect us to take this sort of thing seriously. We did it; we handed him over. Twenty pages of forms? I have better things to spend my time on. So does my team."

"Have you finished?"

Anderson's calm was unexpected, and a lot more disconcerting than rage would have been. Mark swallowed nervously. "Yes, I believe I have."

"Then I think you should listen to what Colonel James has to say."

 _Ah, one of_ those _dressing-downs_. Mark deliberately didn't glare, smile, or let his face show any other expression (he was quite sure Jason would be glaring for both of them), and then turned, slowly and deliberately, to face the colonel. _Wretched penpusher must have friends in high places, to get to make his fuss about forms in person._

So he was more than a little surprised to get a wry smile from the man in question, as James cleared his throat.

"You probably wonder why I'm here. It's not to discuss your box-ticking, believe it or not. It's to report on your operational procedure."

"What the hell do you -" Jason began hotly, and stopped short. Mark guessed someone had kicked him. Probably Princess.

"It's acceptable. You only made one big procedural error, and it was with an area you'd already observed. So -"

"No," Jason said firmly, getting to his feet. "Not playing the game any more. I won't be lectured by a desk jockey based on what G-1 did or didn't write in some report he dashed off in five minutes."

"But you're not being lectured on that basis, G-2." And the voice was different, as the mannerisms completely changed. Suddenly the suit was out of place, and Mark shut his eyes in horrified embarrassment, remembering a bizarre purple and orange fake fur coat. No, this man wasn't a desk jockey at all, and he was indeed fully qualified to debrief them on their extraction of Danquana. He'd been there.

Jason's jaw dropped visibly. He took his seat again, staring in silence.

"No way!" squeaked Keyop.

"What?" asked Tiny, the only one of the team who hadn't met Danquana face-to-face. "What?"

"You can't be," Princess said. "Danquana's a real fashion designer."

"Indeed he is," Colonel James said cheerfully. "An extremely shy one. He was only too delighted for ISO to pay him to design clothes and have to do none of the promotion. We'd intended to do just enough to make him seem real before his 'defection'. Having him become a huge star here on Earth, and for Zoltar to approach him directly, was a bonus we hadn't anticipated."

"You played us," Jason said to Anderson. "You could have told us who he was and saved all the play-acting."

"Hardly." Anderson looked pointedly at Mark, who did some rapid thinking.

"Danquana could have been turned. Or an imposter - I mean a Spectran one. We needed to be sure he didn't compromise us. And, as far as I'm aware, we did just that. I suspect the Colonel is here to tell us where we slipped up."

James nodded. "Indeed. G-2, I had no issues with you at all. And a very nice piece of manipulation with the charges, I must say."

Jason's expression promptly changed to a satisfied smirk, and he leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankles.

"G-5 I didn't interact with. G-4," James raised his eyebrows and Keyop blushed, "not all threats come clearly labelled, and I'm not the only person out there who can act. Don't let people rile you."

Keyop nodded, his eyes firmly fixed on the tabletop.

"G-3." He paused, and it was Princess's turn to flush scarlet.

"I shouldn't have let him - you - go back into the bedroom alone. I know. I'm sorry."

"No, you shouldn't," James agreed. "You also shouldn't have left me alone on the Phoenix. Though, I have to hand it to you, you did secure the sickbay door most securely. I'd planned to arrive on the flight deck and give you all the pleasure of some more of my company. But I would say that your commander very much left you to do all the dirty work."

Mark felt his own cheeks grow hot as he nodded in silent agreement.

"You'd never have left her to handle someone you considered dangerous alone. Like I said to G-4 - they don't always come labelled. But, with that one brief exception in the bedroom, you never left me unattended on the planet, and you made sure I didn't go anywhere interesting on the Phoenix. You did your job despite thinking Danquana was irrelevant as a military threat. That's more than Zoltar did."

Mark nodded again, feeling better, and very glad that no references had been made to some of the comments in his written report. He'd been...quite alliterative in parts of it.

"So what mechas can we expect?" Keyop asked.

"I think that's for a later time, when we've correlated the, ah, costume data with our other intelligence," Anderson said.

"Aw, Chief? Just one?"

"Well, I can tell you for sure that you won't be seeing a mole," James said. "Zoltar decided at a late stage that a mole which was vulnerable to sunlight was a little too ridiculous. A pity - I had the cutest outfit all designed."

"But didn't the real Danquana do the designing?" Princess asked.

"For Zoltar's mecha captains? No. The communication was too risky. We persuaded him to give me some generic designs, and I added detail."

"I've got to ask," Jason said, "how did you come up with them?"

The colonel smiled again, and Mark had the distinct impression that he was enjoying talking to people he could be honest with. "Dice. Three random colours and a random animal."

Jason choked. Keyop spluttered, and even Anderson cracked a smile.

It wasn't until they had been dismissed and were walking back to the ready room that Mark appreciated the significance of what he'd seen. James had gone from colourless clerk to foppish fashion designer in a heartbeat. No makeup, no props, no costume - nothing. One moment he'd been James, the next Danquana.

Ignoring Jason's stunned "what?" Mark turned and ran back along the corridor towards the briefing room at top speed. He was just in time - as he passed the main entrance lobby he noticed two familiar figures just leaving the security post. The colonel would have been signing out just before he left.

"Colonel," he said as he caught up with James and Anderson at the elevator, trying not to pant, "would you teach me?"

"Teach you what, Commander?"

"To be someone else." Mark glanced at Anderson for confirmation. but the Chief's face was expressionless. He carried on. "I'm not a bad actor - but it's hard work, and most of what I've learnt has been to do with changing my appearance physically. You didn't do any of that today. You were just suddenly him. I'd like to be able to do that. I think it would come in useful."

James also looked to Anderson for approval. He got a nod.

"Certainly, Commander. We'll have to arrange time and place, and given the nature of both our jobs the lessons may be...irregular, but yes, I can do that. In the meantime, I suggest you think about being someone else pretending to be you."

Someone else, in black section, in his civilian clothes, relying on people noticing the bracelet and not asking questions... Mark looked down, considering, as the elevator arrived with a ding and James and Anderson stepped into it. How would they feel, indeed? Self-conscious? Most everyone else in here wore uniforms. Would they presume he strutted around with his nose in the air? Would they hide, assuming it was wrong and they should be wearing a uniform, or at the very least a nametag? How would that affect the way they stood and moved?

"Commander?" a voice asked. Mark jumped. The nearest black section security guard had taken a few steps towards him, frowning and with a hand on his weapon. "Are you feeling well?

"I'm fine," he said. Lessons were definitely needed, if even thinking about it had drawn that much attention to him. He headed back to the ready room, smiling to himself. Just for once, a training course that he was looking forward to.

* * *

(Author's note: If you're thinking that the mole which is vulnerable to sunlight sounds familiar, it's from a Gatchaman episode which was never dubbed - the infamous "Puppy Episode".)


	3. Extraction Fighter

The chapter titles are down to something James said, a few Bird Scrambles back. Think about how a certain series is numbered. I'm afraid it had to be done. (As originally posted, they were separate stories.)

Set an unspecified time after Extraction II (probably a few months).

* * *

 **Extraction Fighter**

Jason awoke to dazzling sunlight pouring through the thin curtains of his trailer, and the sensation that it was very much past time to get up. He rolled over and squinted at the clock. Ten a.m., and his birthday.

He was half way through his first mug of decaf of the day when two nasty memories surfaced. First, that if it was his birthday it must be Monday, and therefore he should have been in a meeting a little over an hour ago. Second, that he had in fact set his alarm, and had casually rolled over and switched it off when it went off at eight.

It had only been his clock alarm, though. If Mark had wanted him in the meeting that bad, he could have sent a scramble when he didn't show. A quick check reassured him there hadn't been one. He never had slept through a scramble. He didn't think it was physically possible.

He didn't normally sleep through his clock alarm either, but this week had been especially tough. Three missions in five days, the last of them yesterday when they'd finally managed to nail the mecha which had been picking off specialist fuel transports. They'd been back in time for him to take part in, and win, the final race in the final meet of the season, and then the entire racing team had stayed on for the end-of-season party. As ISO Racing's top points-scorer, he really couldn't have cried off without it being very suspicious. Suspicious was bad. Suspicious might lead to people doing more than roll their eyes and comment how unsociable that Jason kid was. They might wonder where he'd been, all the times he'd failed to show or declined to do so. They might start checking against other things. Known dates of G-Force missions, for instance.

So he'd gone to the party, even if all he really wanted to do was sleep. He'd enjoyed it to the extent that he'd been startled when he'd walked out of the commandeered ISO Racing workshop to a glorious dawn and discovered it was nearly five in the morning.

Decaf wouldn't make him any more awake - nothing apart from multiple significant amounts of sleep not punctuated by running his implant flat would do that at this point - but it did make him feel better. No point going to the meeting now. He'd show his face at ISO later on, pretend he cared about what had been discussed, get some lunch cooked by someone else, and then go nap in his quarters there for a while.

.

He wandered into the ready room at nearly midday to find the rest of the team all there, variously sprawled in chairs and sofas. The conversation stopped instantly, making it entirely clear who its subject had been.

"Sleep well?" asked Tiny with a grin.

"Yeah. For a whole five hours."

Their pilot took a theatrical look at his watch, miming counting back the hours. "And you were doing what at that time of the morning?"

Jason rolled his eyes. "Dissecting my last race victory and trying to persuade a young twit called Luis that no, I really wasn't going to try his favourite cocktail."

"I'm so sorry, Jase," Princess said from her seat at the table. "I haven't been near a shop. I don't even have a card for you. Happy birthday."

Keyop sniggered. "Special celebration."

"Huh?"

And Keyop looked at him and cracked up.

Jason folded his arms and glared, not at Keyop, but at his commander, who was looking far too innocent. "Okay, Mark, what's going on?"

Mark abandoned his flight magazine and grimaced. "Spectra's at it again. Do you remember Colonel James?"

"James? Mr Annoying Fashion Designer who turned out to be an ISO plant?"

"That's him. He thinks there may be a Spectran hit planned for Danquana's next fashion show. It's tomorrow."

Jason shrugged. "So we have to go sit through a bunch of stick insects wiggling their hips down the catwalk. I'll live."

Mark looked at the floor, in a way which was never good. "Um...no, that isn't exactly what we've been asked to do..."

.

"No. _No_." Jason felt himself recoil physically, and did nothing to hide it. "There is no way in hell."

"We don't get to pick and choose our missions. You know that."

"That's all very well for you to say. You're the actor - why don't you do it?"

"It wouldn't work," Princess put in. "Body shape. James said it right up front, when he was being Danquana. Mark's got too much obvious muscle. Nobody would ever believe he was a model. Jason's the right build."

Jason redirected his glare, but he knew she was right. He'd played on it for years, letting people see 'slight' rather than 'lean'. A baggy sweatshirt, jeans which weren't quite skin-tight, and the fact he had almost no body fat was so much more obvious than the fact he had muscle definition to die for. If he did say so himself.

He considered what little he knew about fashion modelling. It didn't help.

"I can't do it," he said. "I _can't_. I've no experience. It will show."

"I said that." Tiny had retreated to the kitchen area, and now handed him a cup of coffee. It was probably intended as a peace offering. "There's a practice tonight."

"A practice? You mean I have to go mince up and down the catwalk on my birthday - is that what Keyop was getting at? Wonderful. Any more revelations?"

"Just that one. I really am sorry, Jase. I'd do it if I could. I'll take you to the practice, in any case."

Jason snorted. "I can complete my new image by saying you're the love of my life. Oh, man. Can we really not send a couple of ISO security teams instead?"

"We really can't." Mark waved a datastick at him. "Do you want to read the entire report? Seems only fair, after you missed sitting through it this morning."

Jason didn't reach for it. Instead he sat down and took a long, deliberate swallow of his coffee. "I think I'll give it a miss. Tell me the important points. Consider it your birthday present to me."

"Jase, I'm sorry," Mark said again.

He shrugged. "Forget it. I'll do my job. It isn't the first crappy birthday I've had and I doubt it'll be the last."

He paid perfunctory attention as Mark ran through what he suspected had taken Anderson far longer to deliver. There wasn't a great deal to it other than one man's suspicion. However, that one man was Colonel James. He'd spent over a year on Spectra masquerading as Danquana, fashion designer extraordinaire, trusted with designing uniforms for Zoltar's mecha captains. He'd lived among the enemy and, as far as they were aware, had defected twice, once in each direction. If he said his life was in danger, it probably was. James was no fool, and what he did was something Jason would have liked even less than prancing down a catwalk. He could put up with making a fool of himself for a couple of evenings.

.

Much to his relief, nobody else in black section mentioned it, though he did overhear a couple of discussions of James and heightened security arrangements. A few slightly nervous 'happy birthday' comments were the most anyone said directly to him. Not a mention of his own role in these 'security arrangements'. His reputation tended to do that to people.

No cracks at lunch either, though Keyop was still dissolving every time he looked at him. Jason just sighed. There were times when the Swallow's immaturity could be deeply annoying. Then again, had the tables been turned, he'd probably have been the one making the jokes. He'd live. In twelve hours this practice would be over and at least he'd know what was involved for the following day. And the canteen was serving lasagne, which improved his mood no end. He could do this.

"Hey, Jason! You still with us?"

He blinked hard. "Yeah. What?"

Mark grinned at him. "Makes my point for me. You're half asleep still. I'm cancelling this afternoon's training, since we may need our wits about us tonight. Go crash."

"I can cope."

"Sure you can. I'd rather we were all back to full capability than coping. Anyone here think they're back to a hundred percent?"

Even Keyop didn't respond.

"Sorted, then. Afternoon naps all round. Jase, I'll come get you at seven."

"You said eight. How far away is it?"

"James wants to talk to you first. It's what Danquana does for all his new models, apparently."

Keyop dissolved again, and Jason glared. "Just you wait, kid."

.

Mark was using him as an excuse, Jason decided as he kicked off his shoes and sagged to lie full-length on the rarely-used bed in his quarters. They were all bone-weary, after three closely spaced missions. The implant people might claim a recharge period of less than a day, but Jason certainly found that there was a buildup of fatigue if he had to use it extensively and repeatedly instead of having several days between missions. Or maybe it was his body complaining and not the implant at all. Either way, he badly needed the rest, and was pretty sure he wasn't the only one.

He woke to a hammering on the door, and for a moment he had no idea where he was or why. Then reality reasserted itself and he groaned. The half-formed dreams of purple and orange minimal outfits probably _were_ reality.

"What?" he called, not bothering to even try to sound awake.

"Seven o'clock, Jase. Rise and shine." Mark sounded amused.

"Coming," he grumbled, not least because he'd just given Mark another piece of ammunition in his ongoing 'I need less rest than you' campaign. Quick strip and change, shoes on, and he joined his commander in the corridor.

"Tell me I didn't need to dress up for this."

Mark, wearing white jeans and a shirt with an actual collar and pale blue office stripes, shrugged. "You get clothes provided. I get to sit in the back and be eyed up. I felt the need not to look underage. Hungry?"

"I'm fine." Food was not high on the agenda.

"You're nervous as hell," Mark said. "I'll drive. I need a reason to be there. Other than being the love of your life, of course."

"No way the love of my life would wear that shirt."

Mark grinned. "You'll be fine. Come on."

.

He'd never have admitted it, but he was glad not to be driving. Driving would have left him with nothing else to think about but what he was heading into. Not driving meant he could think about Mark's driving technique. Which had certainly improved, he had to admit. But it was still...careful. Jason had the strong impression that his commander was concentrating on coordinating every movement, and that if asked to navigate, or shoot, or do anything else at all, it would suddenly have become a lot less impressive.

"Why the hell is James still Danquana?" he asked.

Mark jumped and, as Jason had suspected, his hands tensed on the wheel and his line on the road became just a little bit less perfect. "What?"

"Why is he still undercover? Danquana defected back to us months ago."

"But Zoltar doesn't know he was a plant. If he discovered ISO got a man that close to him, he might pay more attention to the other humans who work for him."

"There are others?"

"Where did you think our intelligence comes from?"

Jason considered making his usual crack about military intelligence, but in the context of people who were working directly in Zoltar's employ and passing information back to ISO it didn't seem quite so funny. He hadn't considered that.

And then Mark indicated to turn left before they'd got anywhere near town, and all thoughts of strategy and espionage were gone.

"We're going to Jill's?"

"Didn't I say? Jill was over the moon about getting to meet Danquana, and it means Princess and Keyop are just upstairs in case we need them."

They pulled into the car park, and Jason swallowed hard. How many people did a rehearsal for a fashion show take? He'd expected it to consist of him, James, and maybe four or five others. There were twenty, maybe thirty vehicles here.

Somehow there was a space just next to the front door. Mark pulled into it, stopped dead, handbrake on, all in ISO approved style. "Ready?"

Oh, for a bird scramble right now.

He followed Mark to the door, wishing he'd taken their acting lessons more seriously. It had never seemed important. Mark was so darn good at it, why would it need two of them?

He did, however, practice not looking terrified on a regular basis. Jason squared his shoulders, answered Mark's questioning look with a sardonic grin of his own, opened the door and strode in.

The babble fell silent. The room looked nothing like the catwalk he'd been expecting. He recognised everyone he could see. And then there was a cheer in what was unmistakably Tiny's voice, and a cry of "Happy Birthday!"

He turned to Mark, who had slipped quietly in behind him and closed the door, and was now wearing a particularly satisfied smirk.

"I am going to kill you."

.

"So he didn't suspect anything, then?" Dave O'Leary, one of their Team Seven colleagues, extricated himself from the crowd and presented the pair of them with glasses. Dave, Jason noted, had the sense not to try to give him alcohol. Of course, Dave was just as underage as he was, and their Team Seven commanding officer was barely five yards away, in cheerful conversation with Carl from ISO Racing.

Was _everyone_ who he knew here?

"Not a thing," said Mark cheerfully.

"How did you get him here?"

"Oh, I told him he was coming to an audition for the next male supermodel." Mark delivered it completely deadpan, and Dave sniggered.

"No, really. What did you tell him?"

Mark smiled and took a swallow of his juice, and abruptly there were arms around Jason's neck.

"Happy birthday," whispered Princess in his ear. "Do you like your party?"

He wondered what she'd say if he told her it was the first birthday party he'd ever had, surprise or otherwise.

.

It wasn't a wild, long-lasting party by any means. The ISO Racing contingent had been up until all hours the night before, of course, and most of them would have got up and gone to work as normal. They'd all made their apologies by nine thirty. Most of Team Seven might have been ready to party into the early hours given half a chance, but they weren't. Shortly after ten, Commander Nykinnen glanced at the clock, commented to nobody in particular that he'd heard the ISO gate guards were being particularly strict on out-of-hours access back to the base, and left.

Ten minutes later, G-Force were the only people still in the room.

"Thank you," he said, for what felt like the millionth time. "I think."

"Don't get too used to the whole party idea," Mark said. "I only realised too late just how badly this could go wrong. If we'd been called out..."

"We weren't," Tiny said, mouth full of various snackfood which he doubtless felt shouldn't be wasted.

Jason looked around the room, strewn with dropped peanuts, bits of cake, streamers and wrapping paper. He'd acquired a startlingly large collection of slightly risqué T shirts, books associated with racing, and joke mugs. "We should tidy up," he said reluctantly.

"Jill said we could leave it. Actually, the word she used was 'should'. Keyop and I will help her with it in the morning." Princess gave their youngest member a pointed glance, and Keyop grumbled inaudibly.

"Sounds fine to me." Mark headed for the door. "You coming, Jason, or do you plan to walk?"

"I'm surprised you're prepared to share a car with me, after setting me up like that."

Mark grinned cheerfully and unrepentantly. "You wanted to be sure your cover story was secure. Now your ISO Racing friends have met the people you work with in your other job and spent an evening listening to them grumbling about cancelled leave and having to work stupid hours when the alarms go off. Sorted."

 _You could have done that without winding me up about prancing down a catwalk_. But the sensation of relief that he hadn't actually had to do it was so intense that he didn't have the will to be angry. No purple and orange catsuits. No hip-wiggling. His heartrate was finally back to somewhere near normal, and that was enough for now. All he wanted was a good night's sleep.

.

He felt almost human when he woke up the next morning. In bed before midnight, alarm going off at eight. He'd slept like a log, too. He didn't think he was quite back to full speed, but another relaxed day would do it.

Which inevitably meant that the scramble came twenty minutes later, just as he was finishing his coffee and considering a late cooked breakfast in the canteen. He glared at his flashing bracelet before checking the details. Priority one, briefing room two, in fifteen minutes. Not an emergency. No birdstyle required.

"What's this all about?" he asked Mark as they waited for the elevator.

His commander shrugged. "Not a clue."

"So tell me," Jason said, "what was on that memory stick you offered me yesterday?"

He got a broad grin. "My mission reports from this week."

"You mean, if I'd..."

"Like that was ever going to happen."

Jason glared. "Remind me to be less predictable."

"You could start by getting your own reports in on time? Nobody would expect that." He ducked out of the way of Jason's telegraphed punch and frowned at the elevator lights, showing it still on the ground floor. "What are they doing, rebuilding it? I'll take the stairs."

Jason eyed the distance to the top of the stairwell. "Race you."

They reached the briefing room door together, even if that was largely because Mark had gone round one of the security guards instead of through him. Paused for ten seconds by unspoken mutual agreement - they'd both been on the receiving end of Anderson's maturity lectures more than once. Calm expression, straightened shirt, and Jason followed his commander into the room.

Anderson was there already. So were the rest of G-Force. And so, rather to his surprise, was Colonel James. More acting lessons? Maybe Mark's plan hadn't been entirely based on fiction, as he'd assumed? But he still couldn't see why this was an alert rather than a scheduled meeting.

"Now that you're all here," Anderson said as they sat down, "Colonel, if you'd like to start?"

"I have a problem," said James. "As I think you were told yesterday, I believe there's a Spectran mole in my - Danquana's - organisation. Things have come to a head and there's now a direct threat, which I'll go into later. But I've come to you today because I now urgently need someone to go in and see if they can flush him out. Someone the right age and build to be one of the models." He looked straight at Jason.

Jason couldn't say anything. Couldn't breathe. He'd done all his reacting yesterday. His first thought was 'it's all part of the setup' but it couldn't be. Not given the colours the rest of the team were going. Even Mark had lost his normal ice-cool - there was disbelief written all across his face, and his jaw hung open.

"G-2?" said Anderson.

He wouldn't have a choice, no matter how much of a fuss he kicked up. He'd already done the stomach-churning adrenaline rush. And there had to be something in this for him, now that he wasn't being played. So Mark thought he'd cracked Jason's reactions, did he? Knew exactly what he'd do in every situation? Like hell.

He put on his best helpful smile, and said in as relaxed a manner as he could manage, "Sure thing, Colonel. What would you like me to do?"


End file.
